


Fever

by PinupGhoul



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Rejection, Requited Love, Sappy Ending, Sex, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 19:04:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14900232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinupGhoul/pseuds/PinupGhoul
Summary: Courier Harley Rivera sets out on a quest for answers. Arcade tags along.





	Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Can you believe it? I actually got into New Vegas. Finally.
> 
> In a couple of days, I'll be posting a little add-on. It's going to focus on the Benny/Harley interaction.

Arcade never should have tagged along for this stupid, risky revenge quest. Just because a pair of pretty eyes looked his way, he'd up and left the Old Mormon Fort, traveling past the gate and into The Strip. Getting in cost an unreasonable amount of caps. He had never desired to go past the Securitrons and into the world of vice before, but his companion, Rivera, was desperate enough to run myriad odd jobs just to scrape the caps together.

 

“I assume you don't have a plan,” he said, as soon as they were waved through. The 'glory' of New Vegas rose up above them, brazenly displaying all it had to offer, like an enormous, neon striptease.

 

Rivera glanced over his shoulder. He gave him a sheepish smile, the same kind that got Arcade into this mess in the first place. “We gotta find Benny,” he said.

 

“And then? I'm not sure his goons will take kindly to you waltzing into The Tops and taking him out.”

 

He reached the flashing, technicolor entrance. “I'm just looking for answers. I don't want to kill anybody.”

 

 _There he goes again,_ Arcade thought. The ex-courier talked and carried himself with a strange sort of naivete. Although he himself liked to avoid conflict whenever possible, Rivera took it a step farther than was healthy. The guy shot him in the head, point-blank, and left him to die in a shallow grave, and he was ready for a friendly chat. Probably a result of brain injury. And yet, Arcade tagged along beside him like a faithful pet.

 

A man at the door stopped them, demanding they hand over their weapons. Harley did so without complaint or deceit. He couldn't lie to anyone even if he wanted to. He'd never seen him try, but he just couldn't picture it, as if the idea of not telling the bare-faced truth just never occurred to Rivera. That annoying little habit got them into more than their share of trouble thus far, but it seemed to make the guard happy, for he gestured for them to pass.

 

“Do you mind waiting here?”

 

“Excuse me? I'm not about to let you go in alone. Don't you think I should be there in case he tries to finish the job?” Three weeks they traveled together, all on this obsessive mission, and now he wanted him to stand idly by? Despite, or maybe because of, Rivera's childish naivety, Arcade cared about him, at least enough to want him safe.

 

“It's not like that. I just want to talk.”

 

“And if he doesn't?”

 

“I'll be right back.”

 

Before Arcade could give him a perfectly reasonable argument not to, Rivera disappeared in the direction of the bar. “I guess I'll guard the perimeter,” he said to himself.

 

As minutes ticked by, Arcade strained to hear the conversation. Voices didn't carry in the carpeted lobby, but a gunshot surely would. He looked at his watch, though he knew it was broken. He'd collected a lot of broken things lately, since he and Rivera started traveling together. He leaned back against the wall, avoiding eye contact with the suit-and-wingtip doorman. What was taking him so long? What did he even hope to accomplish, talking with his would-be killer?

 

Arcade had watched Rivera piece together the puzzle of his past, had helped him track Benny down across the Mojave, but he just couldn't understand it. He knew Rivera wasn't motivated by revenge, but what other option was there? One of these days, he'd have to give the man a thorough examination to see just how far the injury had affected his mind. His stomach flopped. That was another issue entirely.

 

In the near month they'd been together, Arcade had been experiencing _feelings_ of a less than professional nature. Just the thought of 'examining' Rivera was enough to make sweat bead on his forehead. He tried to squash it down, but it was nearly impossible when Rivera's first words to him were flirtatious. And with his level of honesty, it was enough to make Arcade wonder. The truly concerning part was how his attraction went beyond just physical. He was loathe to admit it, especially since Rivera possessed many nice physical attributes, but there it was, just the same. Arcade had a crush on him.

 

Which only heightened his tension when an hour slipped by. Without his plasma pistol, what good could he do if he went after him? Still, he hadn't heard gunfire, so that was something. He was just about to run in there when an elevator dinged, and Rivera came strolling out, grinning like an idiot. His far-too-shaggy hair sprung up in all directions, and his dark eyes sparkled. He adjusted the collar of a suit Arcade had never seen before. “Where were you?”

 

“Oh, Benny let me have the Presidential Suite. I'm a V.I.P., I guess.”

 

He blinked. “So, you two are good buddies now?”

 

Rivera glanced at the ground. He looked guilty. “He's not that bad, actually.”

 

“He shot you. Or have you forgotten?”

 

“Let's just go,” Rivera mumbled. He wouldn't look Arcade's way as they left.

 

He wanted to ask a thousand questions. Why did Benny let him go? Did he, or was Rivera feeling guilty for putting him down? Was the entire casino about to come after them? Instead, he followed along as he always did, letting the courier lead the way.

 

 

***

 

After an uneventful, mostly silent week along the Strip, the two set out to the east. As night fell, they paused in their trek.

 

“We're going to the Fort tomorrow,” Rivera declared as they set up camp. The little outcropping of mountain rock sheltered them from the rare bit of rain that might decide to fall, and hid them away from more dangerous predators.

 

Arcade dropped his bedroll with a start. “You can't be serious.” He knew, of course, he was.

 

“I met a guy at The Tops this morning. I've been summoned by Caesar.”

 

“And you're just planning on marching right in there?”

 

“Do you have a better idea?” He tugged together some sheets of cloth, pulling them into a makeshift tent.

 

“Yes, in fact. Lots of them.”

 

Rivera huffed in a decidedly immature way. It wasn't Arcade's fault that he kept courting death. Someone had to stop him before he got hurt. Hurt worse. Arcade helped him adjust the tent, then rolled out his bed. He sat on it, watching the fading fire, trying to read Rivera's secretive expression.

 

The other man sat down, too, scooting his bedroll close. He lay on his stomach, fascinated with the flames. Or at least pretending to be. After a while, he spoke.  
“Arcade?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“You know a few things about relationships, right?”

 

If he had a drink, he would have done a perfect spit-take. Him? Relationships? The closest thing he could claim were semi-longterm lovers, but even those were fairly emotionless connections. Getting close to someone was dangerous in the Wastes. Promising to spend your life with someone might be the same as a one night stand. Still, within his chest flickered a perfect miniature of their campfire. It warmed his veins, made him aware of just how close Rivera'd placed their beds. Would it be so wrong to want that? “I'm familiar with the basics,” he said. It seemed like a safe-enough answer. “Why?”

 

“I've been thinking a lot about it lately.” He sat up again, turning toward Arcade. His face, warmed by the fire, turned a welcoming pink atop his sunburnt, red-clay cheeks. “What would you do, if there was someone you wanted to get close to, but they didn't notice you?”

 

Arcade's heartbeat tripled. He had to remind himself that Rivera couldn't actually read minds. _Was it possible?_ He fixated on the swirling brown of his eyes, their gazes locked together. He felt his own cheeks heat from within, felt the sweat along the back of his neck again. If this was some subtle way to put his feelings out in the air, could Arcade deny him that? He clasped his hands together so they didn't twitch nervously. “I would, well. I would tell them. You don't get many second chances out here. Who knows if he feels the same? It would be a mistake to miss out.” His voice cracked on the last word. Rivera stared at him still, his lips ticking up into a lazy smile.

 

“That helps.” He lay down, pulling the tattered sheet across his body.

 

Arcade took that as his signal to douse the fire and lay down as well. They had only the one sheet for cover, so each took a side and made do. Rivera, as usual, was out in seconds, leaving Arcade alone to look up at the stars through the little rips in the tent. The gentle motion of Rivera's breathing lifted the blanket slightly, enough that Arcade could feel each breath without looking over at him. He allowed himself a tiny smile in the dark. Despite everything, Rivera was a good man. He helped the Followers, refused to hurt people, and wasn't too annoying to be around. They complimented each other, with his stoic intellect and Rivera's happy-go-lucky enthusiasm.

 

Turning over carefully, so as not to pull the blankets off, he saw the other man's outstretched hand. Rivera slept in the most relaxed position Arcade had ever seen from a human being. He flopped gracelessly out, all limbs extended, flat on his back like a starfish. People rarely showed that sort of trust anymore. It was cute. That hand taunted him, though. It would be so easy to reach out and entwine their fingers, Arcade's large hand in Rivera's slender one. He imagined what it would feel like to hold that mess of a man in his arms. He was so close. Arcade's chest ached. All he could do was wait for morning, wait and hope that he got the courage to follow his own advice.

 

***

 

With the dawn came new disappointments. Rivera refused to let Arcade talk sense into him, and insisted they head for Fortification Hill.

 

“Just to reiterate,” he said, “You got an invitation from a legion creep, to meet the head of the legion creeps, and your plan is to go in and what? Say hi?”

 

“Why not?” he said, slinging his pack over his shoulder. He grinned, carefree, all the melancholy of the previous night gone from his face. He still couldn't figure out how the courier did that; he rolled out of bed like a pre-War holo-star, eyes gleaming, hair perfectly tousled. Arcade, on the other hand, did nothing before nine o'clock except complain. It was hardly his fault the sun was unbearably bright, his clothes stuck to his skin, and they couldn't spare the rations for breakfast. To top it all off, they now had to march directly into their premature deaths. He couldn't imagine he, or Rivera, would look good bleeding to death on the crucifix.

 

“Why not? Why not? Would you like that alphabetically, or chronologically? What could possibly be so important that you'd be willing to walk through that death-trap?”

He got his answer sooner than he wanted. “You dragged me all this way for _him_?” He hissed out his words, careful of the legionnaires that swarmed every tent.

 

Rivera, as per usual, ignored him. His attention focused solely on the checkered suit before him. Benny crouched on his knees, hands tied behind his back. The irony was not lost on any of the party; Rivera had only to click the security off his 9mm, and Benny would find himself in exactly the same position he'd left the courier in.

 

Benny wheedled away, appealing to Rivera's better nature and so on. It made Arcade sick. Of course, he'd fall for it. He fell for everything. Whatever Benny had promised him at The Tops had left its mark on him.

 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked as Rivera slipped a stealth boy and bobby pin to his nemesis.

 

“Shh!”

 

He stopped short. If he didn't want to hear his advice, so be it. It wasn't as if Arcade was laying his life down on the line for Rivera and this idiot.

 

Rivera turned to him with wide eyes. “Run.”

 

He did, not thinking, just following the darting figure as it disappeared in and out of the legion tents. Soldiers came running, weapons fired in his direction, but he never lost sight of the dark-haired man. He ducked as a bullet grazed the top of his hair, sucking in a sharp breath and pushing forward. If they could just make it to the other side of the river, they'd be safe.  
He plunged in, following Rivera, who followed the faint flicker of a stealthed form. He watched the water currents flex around the shape of a body, then closed his eyes, went under, and swam for his life. When his feet hit earth, he opened them and took a deep breath. “Glad that's over,” he coughed. Polishing the water from his glasses, he looked around. Up ahead, Benny reappeared, Rivera by his side.

 

“Look, it was a one time deal, alright? Don't get sentimental.”

 

He listened in, pretending to empty the water from his shoes, turning his back to the two men.

 

“But I thought, maybe we could....”

 

“Baby, you ain't my type. Nothing personal-like.”

 

“So it didn't mean anything to you? I don't mean anything to you?”

 

“Jeez Louise. I appreciate you bustin' me out. I really do. But this thing? It's not gonna happen.”

 

He didn't want to look, but he did. Rivera's dark eyes squinted, turned down at the corners like he might cry. Oh, no. Not that, thought Arcade.  
“Please?” Rivera's normally full voice came out in a broken wheeze. Arcade felt it like a punch to the stomach.

 

“It can't work like that, baby – not out in public like this. You really need me to spell that out?”

 

Rivera plopped onto the sand. He looked just like a child, and Arcade longed to comfort him. But something inside him twisted, a knife in his gut. He knew exactly what they'd been up to at The Tops, why he wasn't allowed up. Why they'd come to The Fort in the first place. It's not you, sang a nasty voice in his head. He'd fallen for it, had given him relationship advice on how to pursue this absolute asshole. That bullet must have seriously messed him up if he went chasing after the man who put it there in the first place. The stomach-churning feeling only reminded him which of them was the biggest fool. If he hadn't helped get him to The Strip, helped him track Benny down, none of this would have happened.

 

He watched Benny wave “Ta-ta,” then hurried over to the slumped man on the sand. “We need to get going. It's not safe.”

 

Rivera didn't make to move, so Arcade pulled him up. All lean, scrappy muscle, he was heavier than he looked, especially in his waterlogged clothes. He took a last look at The Fort, then in the direction Benny disappeared. Slowly, they walked together up over the shifting sand as the sun began to set.

 

***

 

The merciless sun of the Mojave Wasteland spread lazily across the desert, stretching like a basking lizard, until it covered every inch of the parched red earth. All signs of vegetation had long since gasped their dying breaths and shriveled into tumbleweeds. Every few minutes, one of them bounced past the explorers. Arcade wiped the sweat from his brow, feeling his throat scratch with thirst. No sense wasting the few bottles of purified water in his pack, not now when they still had so far to go before they reached Red Rock Canyon. In the far distance, he could just make out the faintest tinge of iron earth which gave the canyon its name. In and out of his dizzy, dry-eyed vision swam the lithe figure of his companion. Rivera took two steps for every one of his, the showoff. The heat couldn't hold him back. Arcade supposed nothing could. The guy took two bullets to the brain, woke up while being dragged from a shallow grave, and a little over a month later, here he was, practically skipping up the mountain path.

 

He sighed, part frustration, part trying to catch his breath. His cushy Followers lifestyle didn't do him any favors. “Do you know where you're going?”

 

Without looking back, Rivera called, “Sure, sure. I'll find it.”

 

That was certainly reassuring. At least he was speaking. He hadn't managed to say more than a couple words since last night. Arcade, babbling about himself to distract him from his own sorrows, suggested they track down his old Enclave associates, and Rivera had halfheartedly agreed. It was a direction, at least, somewhere to go beside back to Freeside in defeat.  
As usual, Rivera pushed on ahead. The pep in his step made it obvious he faked his energy. He overcompensated so Arcade would stop worrying. But the joke was on him: Arcade never stopped worrying. About anything. Ever. Especially not Rivera's heath. Yes, he was brokenhearted, but that didn't give him the excuse to act like a self-destructive idiot. In this heat, he needed water and food, yet he kept shrugging off rations. Arcade managed to keep his own down, despite feeling constantly on the verge of vomiting. Just the thought of that worm with his hands all over Rivera, innocent, sweet Rivera, made his fists clench. Heartbreak would come later; now he was just angry.

 

Up ahead, he spied the peak behind which lurked Jacobstown. They were nearly there. Rivera paused, checked his Pipboy, then turned back to Arcade.

 

From this distance, he couldn't see his face clearly, but could tell just from his body language that something was off. More off than usual. He wavered like a mirage, and as Arcade stepped closer, he fell to the ground.

 

Arcade rushed over, already pulling his medical pack from his shoulder. “Talk to me. What's up?”

 

Rivera mumbled something, his eyes unfocused. Arcade put a hand to his forehead, then pulled it away. “You're hot.”

 

“Thanks,” Rivera mumbled, his head lolling. If he didn't know better, he'd assume he was drunk.

 

“Ignoring that,” he decided aloud. “I would assume heatstroke, but with your hat for shade...” He went to pull the old, dusty cowboy hat from his head.

 

“No!”

 

“What do you mean 'no'?”

 

“Don't take it.”

 

“You're delusional. I need to get some cool water on you before this gets worse.”

 

Though he glared, he couldn't fight the doctor as he took his hat and tossed it to the side. “Here, drink this.” Passing him one bottle of purified water, he opened the other and prepared to pour some onto his forehead. He brushed aside Rivera's messy hair, but found it stuck to the skin. “Let me see that.”

 

“No! Leave me alone,” he sulked. He moved to cover his forehead, but his weak arms just flailed uselessly by his sides.

 

“It's nothing I haven't seen before,” he assured him. Carefully, he tried to unstick the chunks of hair. Dried blood and pus kept it caked to his skin. “Oh. I haven't seen that before.” The bullet wound, dead in the center of Rivera's hairline, stood out raw and ragged against his skin. “This is a mess. I told you to keep it clean, and now you've gone and gotten it infected. No wonder you're delirious. You've got a fever. Hold still.”

 

He made a sound, but lay still, his head propped up in Arcade's hands.

 

“I'm going to have to cut your hair to get it out of the way.”

 

“What?”

 

“Just hold still. I can figure this out.”

 

He rummaged about in his bag, pulling out a stimpak, his two bottles of water, bandages, a slice of soap, and a pair of bandage scissors. “Take this,” he said, handing him the stimpak. “No, not in your head. You wouldn't survive an hour without me. In your arm, there.”

 

“Why purified? Just use regular water.”

 

It was the most coherent thing he'd said, but still Arcade had to argue. “You want me to put dirty water in your hair? Do you have any idea what the rads will do to you? You'll go bald. Your skin will fry. Your hair is...nice.”

 

“My hair is nice?”

 

“Shut up.” With medical precision, he worked the slim sliver of soap into a lather with the water, doing his best to clean out Rivera's knotted hair. It hung to his shoulders, and would be handsome, if not for the dried blood and desert dust. Shame to cut it, but it must be done. With the little dull scissors, he started at the base of his hair, shearing off long, limp chunks of the once-black locks. Now they were tinged red with mud. Little by little, he cleared away the worst of it, cutting the hair free from the wound.  
Rivera, all the fight out of him, leaned back against his shoulder and hummed. Arcade wondered what sort of fever dreams went through his head as he worked. Finally, he rinsed the soap out, and used what remained of his water to clean the wound. “Only one way,” he mused, “So I'm guessing they're still in there. Frontal lobe damage, definitely. That would be...” he thought back to his research. Studying was one thing, but hands-on? He just now remembered all he'd forgotten. “....Memory loss. That's a given for you. Change in personality. Can't really say. Didn't know you. Loss of muscle coordination?”

 

Rivera flopped his head backward, a stupid grin on his stupid cute face.

 

“That's the fever. Hmm. You know you're lucky to be alive, right?”

 

Rivera laughed. He closed his eyes, his wet hair leaving a patch on Arcade's dirty lab coat.

 

“I've got to bandage that up. Keep it clean this time.”

 

“Yes, doctor.”

 

He sighed. It was nearly impossible not to pity him like this. Anyway, it was Benny he was mad at. Mostly. “Just sit still for a little while. No sudden movements.” He looked around. The canyon sheltered them from any real danger, save for sudden ambushes. The Great Khans liked them well enough, though, so chances were good they'd have a spot to rest.

 

“Can I lay here?” he asked, settling his bandaged head in Arcade's lap.

 

He turned about four different colors, but finally settled on nodding and placing Rivera's hat back on his head, shielding his eyes from the intense light. Absently, his fingers stroked the newly-trimmed pieces of hair that peeked from beneath the bandage. He fantasized about this before, holding Rivera in his lap without a care in the world. Different circumstances, sure, but what did it matter, really? He knew his chances had been reduced to zero, but he would learn to be happy with what he got. If this was all the closer he could be, so be it.

 

They lay like that for hours, until his arms went numb, and Rivera snored softly. When the sun dipped behind a wayward cloud, making it cool enough to travel, he shook him gently. “Harley, wake up. We should keep moving.”

 

“Hmm?” He rose blearily, clutching at his head. “Did you just call me 'Harley'?”

 

“Well, that's your name.” His cheeks burned. Had he? If so, it was totally unconscious..

 

“You never call me that.”

 

“Of course I do.”

 

“No, you just call me Rivera.”

 

“Should I stop?”

 

“No,” he smiled that open, electric smile, “I like it.”

When Harley finally regained his senses, they took off for the far hills. Jacobstown meant shelter, ammo, and good food. They clung to those things as motivation for the long hike. Every so often, Harley looked back and smiled. Arcade felt himself smiling, too.

 

The courier ran his hand along the back of his short hair. “I think I like it. It's not so hot. What do you think?”

 

“I think? I, it looks...nice,” he fumbled. His arms tingled from where Harley had lain, like the heat hadn't left him. So that's what it felt like to fall for someone. Every time the feeling rose in his chest, he shot it down with harsh reality. He doesn't care about you. It's not you he wants. It hurt. It ached in a way he didn't know was possible, like slowly starving to death, feeling the emptiness like physical pain. His chest felt so twisted up, a jumble of emotions he couldn't even begin to untangle, glowing brighter and messier every time he looked at the other man. The brighter Harley acted, like his old self, the harder it was to focus.

 

***

 

Over the next few days, they pieced together what was left of the Enclave. Most of them remembered him immediately, but a few glanced around at the mention of his name, like they expected to see a little kid still.

 

All the while, Arcade walked behind Harley and burned. For his part, Harley did nothing to make it any easier on him. He cheered up quickly. Each night when they made camp, he said a happy little “goodnight!” and burrowed under the blankets, like nothing in the world could trouble him. Arcade wished for that luxury. Most nights, he lay awake, growing more and more bitter. It wasn't anyone's fault. Harley just didn't like him. He knew better, scientifically, rationally, but that wasn't enough to dull the feeling.

 

Then one night, as they lay under the open stars, both of them on their backs after a long day of walking and running for their lives, Harley snapped.

 

“What's your problem?”

 

“Excuse me?” He sat up, brow furrowed. He pulled on his glasses in order to properly fix him with a glare.

 

“If you hate me so much, just leave.”

 

Where had this come from? He'd seen Harley angry before, but never directed at him. “I don't hate you. Why would you even think...?”

 

“I've noticed. I know you think I'm stupid, but I see the way you avoid eye contact. You can't even look at me. Is it because of the Benny thing?”

 

Arcade looked away, then thought better of it and turned back to face him. Sweat formed on his upper lip. He wiped at the back of his neck. “I don't care about that,” he lied.

 

“You told me to go after him. You said I should tell him.”

 

 _Thanks for the reminder._ “I didn't realize you were talking about the man who shot you in the head. That changes things.” _Dammit_. He didn't mean to sound so sarcastic, so bitter, but it just came out that way.

 

“Who else would I be talking about? It's not like I spend time with a lot of people. There's just Benny and you.” He stopped shouting suddenly. His mouth dropped open.

 

Arcade squirmed. Well, there it was. Out in the open.

 

“Oh.”

 

He made to stand up. “It's probably for the best if I just go.”

 

“You?”

 

He cringed. What could he possibly say?

 

“I thought...I thought you hated me. You act like you can barely stand me.” Harley looked up at him with those beautiful dark eyes, wide with realization and something else. “I wanted you for the longest time, but I thought you were just putting up with me, I don't know, out of pity. I never thought...you wanted me.”

 

 _Oh_ , but he wanted him. For endless long, silent nights, he wanted him. Arcade felt his chest tighten, shame and hope mixing together with enough strength to make him sit back down before he fell over. He grit his teeth. “Can you forgive me?”

 

Harley lit up like a flame, practically falling over Arcade in a move to get closer. He pressed up against him, almost in his lap, looked him in the eyes, and kissed him. For a second, Arcade didn't move. This was what it felt like, getting everything he hoped for? It happened so suddenly, like flipping a switch, the embarrassment melting away as he kissed back, digging his hands into the back of Harley's shirt. He melded their mouths together, accepting and giving forgiveness and permission until they shared breath. Just as his head swam, Harley pulled back. “I don't want this to be a one-time thing, alright?”

 

Arcade nodded, stunned.

 

“I want to be with you. Just you.”

 

Was he supposed to admit it now, or would it ruin the moment? Feelings didn't come naturally. They stuck in his throat like a mouthful of desert sand. “I, I think I might, um.” He took a breath, forehead pressed to Harley's, brushing the bottom of the bandages. “I think I might love you, actually.”

 

Harley melted. He kissed him sweetly, fingers in his blond hair, tugging his glasses free and out of the way. “I'm sure I love you.” Like everything else, Harley said the words with his signature simplicity, nothing but honest truth. It was, all at once, terrifying and perfect. And then Harley's hands were sneaking up beneath his undershirt, pressing against his chest, and he could focus on nothing else. He raised an eyebrow to say “Are you sure?” before letting the other man tug it off. He did the same for him, shrugging him out of his tee, exploring his scarred skin with his palms.

 

Neither seemed to care that they were sheltered only by the terrain. They'd omitted a tent tonight, but that only gave Harley more space to push Arcade down and straddle his waist. He pressed their chests together, both of them warm with nerves and excitement. “Got anything in your bag for this, doc?” he asked, not letting Arcade think of a reply as he unzipped his pants.

 

He fumbled for the bag, his eyes squeezed shut. The more he looked at the man above him, in all his fire-lit, sweat-slicked glory, the sooner this would be over. He found it, groping around for the burn ointment he kept for emergencies. It was, essentially, pre-War vaseline, and this definitely qualified as an emergency. “Here,” he said, passing it with shaking hands.  
Arcade hadn't thought to ask, just assumed how this would go. _Assumed_ , he thought. _Definitely not fantasized_. When he saw Harley slick his fingers and pull at Arcade's waistband with his other hand, his eyes went wide. Not that he was about to argue with a good thing. Harley's slender physique and non-dominant personality just suggested certain positions.

 

“You ready?” Harley asked, tracing the inside of Arcade's pale, soft thighs with one hand.

 

He inhaled, and nodded. “Have been for a while.”

 

Harley ignored the tone, pressing his slicked fingertips into the cleft of his ass, hiking those thighs up a little over his slim hips.

 

Arcade hummed as he pushed inside, his body spasming against the intrusion. It had been a while, an embarrassingly long while, and his muscles tensed.

 

“You alright?” Harley never slowed his insistent press, calming him by drawing small circles over his skin, circling his navel, smoothing down his ticklish sides.

 

He hissed a breath in through his teeth when Harley crooked his fingers, which of course only served to encourage him. The open air and quiet night made him feel particularly bare, exposed to the world and to the intense gaze his lover shined down on him. Harley bit his lip, concentrating on hitting that spot inside him, scissoring his fingers with expert precision.

 

“Do I want to – ah! – know how you're so good at this?” His head fell back against the bedroll, eyes nearly crossing. It was a shame he'd lost his glasses; Harley, like this, must be a sight.

 

His face broke out in a grin. He twisted his fingers harshly, making Arcade bite back a sharp sound. As he withdrew his fingers, he said, “More?”

 

He nodded enthusiastically. _More, yes. More of this forever._ Sex was so much better with emotions attached. Every little touch of his hands, as they took hold of him and pumped teasingly, felt like lightning to his core. He wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn't stop watching the blush spread down Harley's chest. Beneath the rosy hue, his nipples hardened. He wondered what his skin tasted like. Probably the salt tang of sweat, and the smoke of the fire. “Harley...” he breathed, words forced out of him at the sight of his lover undoing his own tattered pants.

 

He stripped bare before settling back between Arcade's long legs, holding his cock in hand. Like all of him, it was slender, long, and dusted with curly black hair. He lined himself up, stroking the ointment down his length. His own eyes fluttered closed.

 

Arcade had to interrupt with a quiet “hey” to keep him from chasing his pleasure. No sense leaving either of them wanting. The cool desert air, so much more tolerable at night, cooled their fevered skin, sending chills down Arcade's spine. “Can we keep this moving?”

 

Harley laughed, bringing himself back from the edge. His cock curved nicely upward, nearly brushing his stomach. Arcade wanted him more than anything. Even as he laughed, he lined himself up pressing his head against his hole and hesitating. “Can you ask nicely?”

 

Arcade groaned, and not in the way he'd like to. “Would you please hurry up and fuck me?”

 

“That wasn't so hard, was it?”

 

If he didn't need him that instant, Arcade could have strangled him. “Oh,” he said as Harley entered him in a slick thrust. He screwed his eyes shut. He had forgotten how much this hurt.

 

“Hey, look at me,” Harley said. “You ok?”

 

He looked up, seeing Harley crowned with a backdrop of stars. He let out a breath and tried to relax. “I'm ok.” He rested his hands on Harley's shoulders, smoothing up to play with the short-cropped hair along the nape of his neck.

 

Harley withdrew, then slid back in, deeper this time, starting up a slow rhythm of shallow thrusts. Arcade's grip tightened on his shoulders, blunt nails digging in, both holding on, and pulling him closer. Pleasure washed away the slight pain as he relaxed, circling his legs tighter around Harley's waist. With every thrust, Arcade let slip little punched-out moans. Harley leaned down to swallow them in a kiss.

 

Without warning, he changed angle, shifting so they were practically scissoring. He thrust in to the hilt, brushing against his prostate every inward stroke. Arcade shook, his cock leaking against his stomach, his face flushed brilliant pink.

 

Harley grunted, moving harder against him, enough that his thighs slapped Arcade's. He closed his eyes, head thrown back.

 

Arcade's breath caught. He wanted a picture of him like this to hold onto forever. He supposed, with the last remaining shred of rational thought in his mind, that he had something even better: the real thing.

 

“Oh, shit!” Harley moaned, and that was all the warning he gave before pulling out roughly and painting Arcade's thighs with stripes of cum. He clenched his teeth, overwhelmed by the pleasure. It was stunning to watch.

 

Luckily he recovered quickly, already taking Arcade in hand and pumping only a couple times before he was ready to follow over that edge. The unbearable waiting and wanting built up in his core and rose like a heatwave, washing over him as he came with a high shout of Harley's name.

 

He didn't remember much after that. When his consciousness found him once more, Harley's chest pressed up against his back, both of them still naked. He noticed they both were wiped clean, and a blanket rested across their bodies.

 

“Harley?”

 

“You're not leaving, right?”

 

“I'm never leaving.” The time for sarcasm was past. Right now, he mimicked Harley's unending honesty.

 

“Good.” He pulled Arcade around by his shoulder, kissing his cheek and then his lips. “Do you promise?”

 

“I promise.”

 

Then, with Harley by his side, and the boundless desert stars above him, Arcade fell into the first easy sleep he'd had in months.


End file.
